


pink champagne

by OnyxSphynx



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Charlie has dyslexia you can’t change my mind, First Kiss, M/M, a bit of Angst with a happy Ending, but not a lot I promise, but we already knew this, dinotopia is a subject over which they bond, diy waterboarding, not to much though, poor boys, the gang is kinda fucked up tbh, the gang kidnaps Scientist, yeah I torture the cinnamon roll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 09:09:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17639900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: The gang kidnaps Scientist, but it turns out alright in the end.





	pink champagne

Their first meeting is in the Philadelphia Public Library; he’s there to pick up an Agatha Christie novel that he’s had on hold for a while, and runs into—quite literally—a short, scruffy man with earbuds jammed into his ears.

Owen lets out a surprised yelp, and the scruffy man trips backwards onto the floor, the stack of audiobooks in his arms crashing to the ground, and lets out a groan.

“Oh my!” Owen exclaims, “are you quite alright?”

The man groans again, squinting up at him. “Not really, dude—you pushed me over!” His voice is indignant, and Owen flushes.

“Well, maybe if you’d been paying attention to where you were going, this could’ve been avoided!” he snaps. Regardless, he does feel bad for knocking the man over, and he begins helping him gather all the fallen audiobooks.

The man chats his ear off while checking them out, but does add, at the end, “Thanks, man, for helping me up.”

Owen waves it off. “Anyone would’ve done the same,” he says firmly. The other man looks at him disbelievingly. “I’m Owen—Owen Gottlieb,” he says, in an attempt to lessen the tension.

“Nice to meet you,” the other chirps, “I’m Charlie. Charlie Kelly.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Kelly,” Owen say, before, “is that a copy of  _ Dinotopia _ ?” It’s the only actual physical copy of a book in the other’s arms.

“Yeah!” Charlie practically lights up, beaming at him. “I’m trying to improve my reading—‘cause I’ve got really bad dys— dys—reading problems, so I’ve just been sticking to the recordings, but this one’s just got really cool drawings, right?”

Owen finds himself inexplicably charmed. “Of course—it’s admirable, your efforts, and I must say, Gurney’s  _ Dinotopia  _ is both fairly easy to understand and quite an interesting read,” he adds, and Charlie’s grin widens, wide and toothy.

The second time they meet, Owen doesn’t knock Charlie over, but it’s a close call. They’re in the library again, and Charlie almost trips over Owen’s outstretched legs. When he locks eyes with the neurologist, a megawatt smile spreads across his face and he plonks down next to Owen. “Owen!” he greets enthusiastically. “You were totally right, dude— _ Dinotopia  _ was a really good book!”

Owen smiles back at him. “Glad I could help. And…you know Gurney wrote multiple books in the  _ Dinotopia  _ series, right?”

Charlie lets out an excited, if muffled by his hands, shriek of excitement. “No  _ way  _ dude,” he breathes, but Owen nods his head.

“I can show you where they are, if you want,” he offers, and Charlie looks like he’s about to explode from excitement. The remaining hour of his lunch break is spent sitting with the other man and amicably discussing the world of  _ Dinotopia _ .

After that, library meetups become a semi-regular occurrence; Charlie is truly fascinating, and, despite his self-deprecating tendencies, obviously quite talented. He’s––well, there’s no other word for it. He’s charming.

“I’m...what?” Charlie asks, staring at him like he’s just suggested worms live in trees, or that the McPoyles  _ aren’t  _ horribly inbred.

“Charming,” Owen repeats, “extremely pleasant or delightful—”

“Yeah, I know what it  _ means _ ,” Charlie interrupts, waving his hands. “But, like, you can’t—you’re joking, right, dude? ‘Cause, like, no offense to you, but if you think  _ I’m  _ charming then you have something wrong with your wiring, Doc—I’m a functionally-illiterate thirty-something who works as a janitor in Philly’s worst bar and huffs glue to sleep at night.” The way he says it sounds like they’re things he’s heard from other people, and, over time, internalized.

“Charlie,” he says, “regardless of whether or not any of that is true, I do think you’re charming. You’re quite a good conversationalist, and your quirks may annoy others, but I’ll have you know that I find them intriguing. Although…” he adds, “I am worried that you mention huffing glue—using inhalants, even occasionally, can be quite damaging.”

“Oh,” Charlie says, bashfully. “I...I didn’t know that, man. Just, like, it’s always helped slow down my head, ya’know? Like, get high so I can just get my brain to shut up for a bit.”

Owen’s heart twists painfully, and he feels the inane urge to gather the shorter man into a hug. Instead, he settles on, “Have you ever been tested for ADHD, Charlie?”

Charlie looks at him blankly. “Eighty-eight sea? What’s that?”

“ADHD,” Owen corrects, “attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder. One of the most common side effect is, as you described, feeling like you’re unable to get your brain to slow down or shut off.”

“Huh,” Charlie says, “uh, nope. Never heard of it.” When he catches sight of the worried look on Owen shoots him, though, he hastily adds, “But I’ll—I’ll get it looked into! And try and find a better way to get to sleep than huffing glue.”

“Thank you, Charlie,” Owen says, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I just—I don’t want you to get hurt from huffing glue.”

“I—thanks, man,” Charlie says, staring at intently at the floor. “I gotta go—there’s probably Charlie Work to do at Paddy’s.” He hoists the stack of books higher up on his hip and waves. “Uh. Bye.”

Owen waves back, not having the heart to remind him that it’s Saturday.

A week later, he gets home from the grocer’s to find four people sitting on his couch and barely muffles a scream.

“Who are you?” he demands, “what are you doing in my flat—no, how did you get  _ into  _ my flat? I have a  _ deadbolt. _ ”

The short, troll-like one holds up—is that a a glass-cutter? That’s a glass cutter!  “We came in through the window,” he says. “Mac wanted to pick the lock on your door, but he forgot his lock-picking kit.”

Owen lets out a slightly hysterical laugh. “Right—right, who are you? And  _ what the hell are you doing in my flat? _ ” 

“Oh, that,” one of the taller men says. “See, we know what you’re doing—you’re brainwashing Charlie!”

Owen stares at him. “What on  _ Earth  _ are you talking about?”

“I’m glad you asked, my friend,” says the other tall one, an unsettling going in his eye. “Dee, hand me the poster, please, so I can explain our  _ situation  _ to Mr. Science Bitch here.”

The blonde lets out a squawk of protest. “What poster, Dennis?”

“The poster I told you to grab!” Dennis snaps. “Dee, did you really—okay, okay.” He sucks in a deep breath. “Plan B it is.”

“I’m sorry, but when are you going to tell me what on  _ Earth  _ you’re talking about?” Owen demands, voice shriller than usual. 

The troll-man leaps at him, knocking Owen over and shoving a cloth against his nose. Owen’s last thought before he passes out is  _ Oh no, I am so not drunk enough to deal with this. _

He comes to ducktaped to a rolling office chair. The troll man notices after a few moments, and grins. “We know what you’re doing to Charlie, Science Bitch.”

“Will someone please tell me what the  _ hell  _ you’re going on about?” Owen pleads. “And my name is Doctor Gottlieb.”

“Whatever, Science Bitch,” troll-man says, “we know you’re brainwashing Charlie.”

“I—why do you keep on insisting that?” Owen questions, covertly trying to wriggle out of his bindings with no luck.

“He’s been  _ different _ ,” Dennis cuts in. “He’s using words like “unavoidable” and “inexplicable” and—and the other day I caught him with a copy of  _ Othello _ that he said he was  _ reading! _ ” They all burst into laughter like he’s just told the world’s funniest joke.

“But it all started a few months ago,” troll-man says. “Mac, what happened a few months ago?”

The other tall man—Mac—chimes in. “He started talking about you. Ever since six months ago, it’s been “Doc this” and “Doc that”,” he makes air quotes, imitating Charlie’s voice. “I’m sick of it.”

“He’s been getting  _ ideas, _ ” troll-man spits, “saying no to Charlie Work, skipping movie night, hell, he even stopped huffing glue and started brushing his teeth and showering regularly!” He leans towards Owen menacingly. “Charlie’s our foundation—and you know where foundations belong, Science Bitch?”

“At the bottom!” the other three chorus.

Owen rests his head against the headrest, giving up on trying to wriggle his way out of the ducktape. “Look, I have no clue how any of these prove that I’m brainwashing Charlie,” he huffs. “And it’s not as if those are bad things.”

The four exchange a look, and Mac says, “He’s not gonna talk, Frank. We’re gonna have to go with plan W.”

Troll-man—Frank—stares at Mac for a moment before he turns to Owen. “You’re right, Mac—it’s the only way to get him to talk.”

Dee and Dennis move in synchrony, undoing the bindings, and Owen makes to fight back, but his mouth is cottony and he sees stars. Dennis and Dee haul him up, manhandling him onto the desk, each grabbing an arm and a leg.

“What are you  _ maniacs  _ doing?” Owen demands, struggling to no avail.

Mac appears in his periphery, a bottle of water and a cloth in hand. “Mac, you wanna do the honors?” he hears, and it dawns on Owen, all of a sudden, what exactly they’re planning to do.

“Uh, no, nope, you cannot  _ waterboard  _ me!” he exclaims, struggling harder. “That’s illegal! It violates the Geneva—” He’s cut off by banging on the door, and annoyance flashes across Frank’s face.

“Deandra,” he growls, “I thought you said you made sure there would be no interruptions.” 

Dee tosses her head in favor of throwing up her hands. “It’s probably the delivery guy—hurry  _ up _ , Mac, we haven’t got that long!” she snaps.

“Alright, alright, I’m  _ going _ ,” Mac huffs, and there’s the distinct sound of the plastic seal of the water bottle breaking.

Owen panics. “Help! Help!” he shouts, “they’re trying to waterboard—!” He’s cut off as multiple things happen at once: a wet cloth slaps over his face, restricting his airflow, making him splutter and gasp, desperately trying to draw in air and instead getting water, and the door bangs open with a tremendous  _ crack _ , and the arms holding him down are ripped away.

The cloth is peeled away, the light momentarily blinding him, and someone’s hand is at his neck, propping him up, saying, “Doc? Doc? Owen, c’mon, you gotta breathe with me—come on, in through your nose, out through your mouth, one, two, one, two—”

His gaze focuses, senses finally calming, and he bolts upright, gripping tightly to Charlie’s shoulders as his body wracks with shudders.

“Sh, sh, sh, it’s alright,” Charlie soothes, “you’re okay, Owen, it’s okay, you can breathe…” his words trail off into a fuzzy white noise, and Owen buries his face in the other’s shoulder, tears wetting the fabric of his jacket.

“Hey man, can you stand?” Charlie asks softly, and Owen nods, jerkily. “Okay, let’s get you up and to your apartment, alright? That sound good?” he checks, and Owen gives another shaky nod. “Alright. Alright…” Charlie mutters,  helping him up onto trembling legs. He keeps an arm wrapped around the neurologist, and snatches a pair of keys from the desk drawer, allowing Owen to brace against him as they make their way out of the bar.

They don’t run into the others on the way out, thankfully, and Charlie helps him into the passenger seat of a car. The entirety of the ride, Charlie allows Owen to grip his hand without comment. Owen only lets go to get out of the car and fish out the keys to his flat.

Once they’re inside, Charlie bustles around, grabbing the duvet of his bed and a carton of ice cream and a spoon, bundling Owen onto the couch.

Owen scoops out a spoonful and stares at the red-purple swirls of huckleberry listlessly.

“Eat,” Charlie urges, “you probably have, like, low blood-sugar now, dude, it’ll help, trust me.”

Owen mechanically raises the spoon to his mouth, letting the sweetness flood his senses for a moment before swallowing. “They thought I brainwashed you.”

“They—they what?” Charlie questions.

“Frank said something about foundations needing to stay at the bottom and accused me of brainwashing you to make you smarter, and next thing I know, I’m getting waterboarded.” Owen lets out a shuddering, humourless laugh.

Charlie stills for a moment, an inexplicable look on his face before he says, falsely cheery, “Well, now I don’t feel bad about scratching the paint on Dee’s car when I backed out.”

The statement draws a genuine, if startled, laugh out of Owen, before he says, “Thank you, Charlie.” Impulsively, he scoops up a larger chunk of ice cream and offers it to Charlie.

“Are you—are you offering me ice cream?” Charlie asks, and Owen nods. He leans forward, and Owen expects him to take the spoon, but instead he slurps the ice cream loudly. Owen wrinkles his nose, and Charlie laughs, the carefreeness of his expression illuminating his entire face.

“Really, though, thank you,” Owen says, “you didn’t have to do any of this—drive me home, wrap me in blankets, force me to eat something…”

“Nah, man, that’s what friends are for, right?” Charlie says, voice rising an octave, refusing to meet Owen’s eyes.

Then it dawns on him. “Charlie, you know this isn’t your fault, right?” Charlie mutters something under his breath, and Owen reaches out, tipping his head up to meet his eyes. “Hey, hey, Charlie, this is  _ not  _ your fault. You didn’t tell your friends to kidnap me—they decided to do that on their own,” he says firmly. “You  _ saved  _ me, Charlie.”

There’s something in the air, the intensity of Charlie’s gaze, the space between them so, so little, and someone’s leaning forward—

The buzz of a phone makes him startle, and with a yelp, he tumbles off the sofa, dragging the carton, and Charlie, down with him into a pile. They scramble madly to rescue the ice cream, and to find the phone.

As it turns out, someone’s calling Charlie. “ _ What? _ ” he snaps as he answers the call, aggravated. “Oh  _ fuck  _ no,” he spits, a moment later, aggressively stabbing the end call button. Owen sends him a questioning look.

“Fucking  _ Dennis _ ,” Charlie hisses, reaching to tug at his hair before dropping his hands. “He just called and demanded that I go back to the bar and kill this rat like—like I didn’t fucking  _ walk in on them torturing you! _ ” His voice reaches a hysterical pitch, and Owen gnaws on his lip, uncertain of what to do.

“Sorry,” Charlie mutters, looking at the floor. “Sorry, I just—” he draws in a shuddering breath, leaving the words hanging, equally uncertain as to how to continue.

Hesitantly, Owen lifts the blanket, patting the area beside him. “Sit.”

Charlie stares at him.

“Come sit down next to me, Charlie,” Owen clarifies.

“Are you—are you sure?” Charlie questions, and Owen rolls his eyes.

“Yes, I’m sure. Come sit down,” Owen says, exasperated. After a moment of hesitation, Charlie crawls onto the sofa, pulling the extra blanket over his legs for warmth. Owen rests his head on the other’s lap, staring at him upside down.

“Ice cream?” he asks, and after another moment of silence, Charlie takes the spoon out of the carton and scoops out a glob of ice cream.

“I’m sorry about...all of this,” he says, and Charlie stares at him.

“Dude, if anything,  _ I  _ should be apologizing,” Charlie protests. “‘Cause unless I walked in on a very kinky, very illegal sexcapade, you were being  _ tortured _ .”

Owen’s face screws up in disgust. “What—no, why would I—?”

“Don’t ask, man,” Charlie advises. “It took me months to even  _ look  _ at a carrot, and I’m never gonna eat one again.” He shudders, staring off into the distance in mute horror.

“You want a drink?” Owen offers, in a blatant attempt to change the topic. “There’s bourbon in the fridge, and whiskey and a bottle of 2007 wine, I think, and maybe pink champagne.”

Charlie almost drops the spoon. “What the fuck, dude? I own a bar, and we never have anything besides, like, shitty beer!”

Owen shrugs. “Hard as it may be to believe, I do occasionally wine and dine people I have an interest in.” Charlie quirks a brow.

“So…you’re a cannibal?”

“What—? No, wine and dine. As in to woo. Date. Whatever,” Owen scowls. “Just grab the whiskey and a glass. I need something to drink.”

Charlie nods, sympathetic, and lifts Owen’s head from his lap, setting it back down on the sofa. He misses the warmth almost immediately. “I feel you, man,” Charlie says. “But also, I’m gonna try this mysterious pink champagne of yours.”

Owen turns his head, hiding his face a sofa cushion to hide his smile. From the kitchen drift the sounds of opening cupboards, the cream of the refrigerator seal, and the click of glass on glass, and then the pad of feet.

“Here,” Charlie says, and Owen levers himself up to accept the proffered glass. “I wasn’t sure how much you wanted, so I poured you half a cup. Oh, and I put away the ice cream, ‘cause it was getting sort of melty.”

“Thanks,” Owen says, and takes a sip. Charlie’s examining the glass of champagne in his hands before he shrugs and throws it back in one gulp, choking as he inhales some. Owen doubles over, laughing until he cries as Charlie hacks, glaring at him.

“S—sorry,” Owen gasps, still shaking with mirth. “I can’t—I c—can’t—”

With a growl, Charlie tackles him, knocking him over. Thankfully, they’ve both set down their glasses, because otherwise, the couch would be ruined.

They remain that way for a moment, Owen pinned beneath Charlie’s smaller frame, before they both burst into laughter and Charlie rolls off of him and onto the floor with an “ _ oof! _ ”. Owen peers over the edge at Charlie, sprawled on the floor, and, without thinking, says, “Do you want to kiss?”

Then what he’s just said crashes on him, and he stutters, “I—I mean—”

Charlie interrupts him. “ _ Yes _ ,” he says, emphatically. Then, “I mean, unless you don’t want to—I was kinda hoping you would.”

Owen gapes at him for a moment before regaining his senses. “Yeah, I—c’mere.” He reaches a hand out, pulls Charlie up until they’re level, and presses a soft kiss to the other’s lips.

It’s short and sweet, but when they pull apart, both of them have grins on their faces, finger interlaced.

“So,” Charlie says, “can I—wine and dine you?”

Owen grins wider, pulling the other in for a hug, and whispers, “Why, yes, Mister Kelly—I’d be delighted.”  
  



End file.
